by Debi Gliori
CRASH. Snort, GASP, Snort, CRASH.
It’s closing in, snapping branches and breathing loudly as it bears down on us. It’s far too dark to see properly, but I can almost make out a huge patch of shadow in the trees up ahead. What on earth . . . ?
*
Eyes streaming, covered in thorns and slashed at by vicious branches, the Nose is not having a good time. On her way home with an armload of pizzas to appease her sisters, her broomstick gave a hiccup and began zigging and zagging across the sky as if it was determined to unseat its owner. Before the Nose could save herself, the broomstick reversed direction and plunged twigs-first into a bramble thicket.
One minute the Nose was sneakily helping herself to a nibble of the Chin’s stringy cheese and pepperoni pizza; the next she found herself upside down and clinging to her broomstick for dear life as it hurtled towards the ground. With a banshee shriek and a loud snapping of branches, the Nose and the brambles became one. Some minutes later, punctured by thorns and draped in mozzarella, she crashed out of the vicious embrace of the brambles and ran straight across the path of two small humans.
It wasn’t until an hour later, when she had reached home and was trying to summon enough strength to pour herself a bath, that it dawned on her exactly whose path she’d crossed. Wait till she told her Sisters . . .
* Apart from tsss tsss tsst, but that’s his earbuds, not him.
Three:
WayWoof gone
‘She must be maaaaaad,’ Jack whispered as the old lady with the big nose blundered off into the darkness. We could still hear her crashing and gasping through the woods as we turned to go home.
‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know,’ Jack added, shaking his head in despair at the kind of lunatic who would choose to run blindly through a darkened forest wearing cheese in her hair when she could have been tucked up at home with loud music tsss tssss tssst-ing through her earbuds.
Privately, I thought the old lady with the big nose looked a lot like a teacher Daisy used to have, except it was hard to be sure with all the cheese dripping down from her hair.
We came out of the woods, and up ahead I saw wood-smoke trickling out of the chimney of the Old Station House and Mum’s silhouette standing in the window of Daisy’s bedroom. As we drew closer, I could see that she had Daisy in her arms and was walking backwards and forwards like she used to do when Daisy was a little waily baby and used to stay up all night. Jack opened the front door and headed inside on an urgent mission to find a recharger. From upstairs came the sound of Daisy crying. This is not unusual. Bed time is not young Daze’s favourite time of day. Mum probably didn’t know that she likes to have me in bed beside her when I’m reading her story.
Me in the bed and WayWoof lying on top of her feet, and—
‘Wayyyyyyy my WaAAAAAAWOooOoOoOO?‘ Daisy shrieks from the top of the stairs in tones loud enough to strip paint.
I look up. There she is, my baby sister, all clean and sweet and ready for bed in her rosy pee-jays and . . . bawling her little head off. Mum appears behind her, mouth opening and closing as if she’s trying to say something. She is trying to say something; it’s just that nobody can hear anything over the din that Daisy the Human Shriek Alarm is making. Dad emerges from the study his hair sticking up all over like a sea urchin. If anything, he looks even more upset than Daisy.
‘Can’t hear myself think,’ he says, taking the stairs two at a time and scooping Daisy up in his arms. ‘What’s the matter with my little Daisy? You’ve turned into a banshee baby. Daisy, Daisy, give it a miss, please do. We’re half crazy, having to listen to you.’
Normally this kind of nonsense calms Daisy down, but not tonight. If anything, Dad is making her worse. Up goes the volume, out squeeze more tears, and poor Daisy begins to hiccup in between sobs.
‘WANTA WAYYYY-hic-WAAY-hic-WAAY-hic-WOO-hic-WOO-hic-WOOF,’ she insists, tears pouring down her face.
I can’t take any more. I leap up the stairs three at a time, and when I reach the top, Daisy is already squirming out of Dad’s arms to reach me.
She’s heavy and very damp from all the crying but she clings to me like a baby barnacle and grabs my face in both her hands to get my full attention before saying, ‘WayWoof all gone, Lil-Lil. WayWoof all GAWWWWWWW,’ and then she cries as if her little heart is breaking.
‘What is she talking about?’ Dad mutters, running his hands through his hair, which makes it stick up even more. ‘What on earth is a Waywoo? Lily? Any idea what Daisy means?’
‘Er, NO. Not an, um, clue,’ I lie, and fortunately Mum and Dad don’t see my face flush pink. I hate lying, but there’s no way I’m about to explain about Daisy’s magical, invisible, smelly and currently missing dog.
Especially not when the owner of the dog is dissolving right in front of us.
‘Let me see if I can cheer Daisy up,’ I gasp. I am staggering under her weight, because for some reason babies become heavier when they’re miserable. Without waiting for a reply, I haul her backwards into her bedroom, nudging the door shut behind us.
Poor Daisy. I’ve never seen her this sad before. I sit on the bed with her on my lap, wrap my arms around her and rock her gently from side to side. I don’t have to say anything. She knows I’m there for her. One hundred per cent. As I rock, I’m trying to find out what’s happened, but all poor Daisy can manage to tell me in between sniffles is: ‘Spells all boken, Lil-Lil. WayWoo not lissnin.’
Hmmm. This sounds serious, but it could be that Daisy is too tired to do her WayWoof spell properly, or even that WayWoof, just like a real dog, has found something truly fascinating (a rabbit, some juicy bones or a decomposing toad) and is temporarily deaf to her mistress’s summons until she has had a good sniff. I’ve often seen dog owners dangling empty leashes and whistling hopefully for their vanished dogs, so I know that dogs-who-run-away are pretty common. With a bit of luck WayWoof will come back when she’s hungry, or tired, or simply decides she’s had enough of rabbits, bones or stinky toads.
In the meantime, I’ll stay by Daisy’s side even if, like now, she’s downloaded something truly evil into her nappy. Phwoarrrrrr, Daisy. WayWoof would be proud of you.
Four:
A real hiss
‘Oh, how lucky are you?’ the Toad sighed enviously. ‘The sister and brother of our precious Witch Baby. Oh, when can we go and see our dear little witch-ette? It’s been ages.’
‘Pffff,’ muttered the Chin. ‘You’re sooooo soft-hearted, Toad. We don’t have to go and visit her every day. What’s to see? She’s still only at the stunted-sprog stage. It’ll be years before she becomes a proper Sister of Hiss like us.’
‘If she ever becomes one of us,’ the Nose hissed.
‘What do you mean, if?’ the Chin snapped, eyes flashing, hands gripping a teacup so hard her knuckles turned white. ‘If? ‘ she repeated, her voice growing shrill. ‘IF?’ she shrieked as the teacup in her hands exploded in a shower of china shards.
Uh-oh, the Toad thought, backing across the kitchen and looking for somewhere to hide. Just in time, she hopped into the relative safety of the dishwasher. It was obvious that the Chin’s temper was reaching boiling point.
‘We don’t do ifs, you idiot!’ she roared. ‘There are no ifs, buts or maybes. No mights, possiblys or perhapses. Our Witch Baby is one of us. We created her out of the raw material of a human baby. We made her into the witch she will become. Without us and our magic, there would be no Witch Baby. There would only be a run-of-the-mill, bog-standard, one-size-fits-all baby.’
The Nose inhaled with a loud hiss and fixed the Chin with a look that could have melted tarmac. ‘That baby,’ she said slowly, ‘is nothing like us. Read my cruel narrow lips: that baby is trouble. If it were up to me, I’d have already cast the Diaper of Doom spell, closely followed by the Nappy of Non-existence enchantment . . .’
The Chin gasped and the Toad gave a moan of terror.
‘N-never say such a th-th-thing, Siss-Sisster dear,’ she quavered, cove
ring her ears as if to block out the awfulness of the Nose’s words. Since she was hiding inside the dishwasher, her pleas went unheard.
‘You’re . . . you’re . . .’ the Chin managed, her eyes swivelling wildly. ‘You’re JEALOUS!’
‘Am not,’ squawked the Nose.
‘Are too,’ replied the Chin.
‘AMN’T, AMN’T, AMN’T!’ roared the Nose, her face rapidly shading from pink to red to purple.
‘Oh, yes you are,’ the Chin said in an unbearably smug sing-song voice. ‘You’re jealous of Witch Baby because, deep in your little black heart, you know that she is already a far better witch than you’ll ever be. She’s only eighteen moons old and already she’s miles ahead of you in magical ability. She’s already fluent in Advanced Abracadabra while you can barely manage Basic Spelling.’
In the ghastly silence following this, the Toad clasped her webbed hands together and silently rocked backwards and forwards. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, she thought, cowering in the darkness of the dishwasher. I really wish you hadn’t said that. She jammed her fingers in her ears as she tried to filter out the hisses and shrieks and crashes and bangs coming from outside her hiding place.
CRASH went the teacups, hurled at the wall.
SMASH went the table, upended on the floor.
CLANGGGGGG went the pot rack, flying out of the door.
Finally, disgusted by her Sisters’ bad behaviour, the Toad reached round the door of the dishwasher, pressed the ‘on’ switch and slammed the door shut. At least this way, she thought, I won’t have to listen to them fight any more.
Half an hour later, warm, wet and squeaky-clean, the dishwashed Toad emerged to survey the wreckage. Plaster dust drifted across the ruined kitchen. The floor was littered with broken china and dented saucepans. The table lay like an upturned beetle in the middle of the room. A lesser toad might have burst into tears at the sight of such destruction, but not the Toad. A tiny smile flitted across her warty lips. HAH! she thought happily. My horrible Sisters may have trashed my kitchen, but they didn’t find my secret hidden stash of chocolate . . .
Five:
Demolition howl
I could have sworn that WayWoof would be back next morning, but by the time we had to get ready for school, she still hadn’t come home. Mum and I had to practically drag Daisy out of the door to go to playgroup.
Poor Daisy. Her playgroup is next door to my classroom and I find myself holding my breath every time I hear a little one crying. So far, so good. Tears have been shed next door, but none of them by my little sister.
‘So – where could Way-Woof have gone?’ Vivaldi whispers out of the side of her mouth.
‘I wish I knew,’ far, so good. Tears have been shed next door, but none of them by my little sister.
‘I wish I knew,’ I mutter as I pretend to write something in my English jotter. I look up, just to check that Mrs McDonald hasn’t noticed Vivaldi and me talking in class. Luckily she hasn’t, but the dreaded Annabel has. Annabel sits across from Vivaldi and me and is always eavesdropping on our private conversations.
‘Where has who gone?’ she mouths at me, but I pretend not to understand.
‘Has she ever disappeared for this long before?’ Vivaldi hisses.
‘No. Never. And the worst thing is that no matter what Daisy does spell-wise, she can’t get WayWoof back.’
Annabel is staring at me, frowning in concentration as she tries to work out what I’ve just said.
‘Don’t worry. I bet when we go out for Halloween tonight, we’ll find her,’ Vivaldi whispers. ‘We’ll go round all the houses. She’s bound to turn up.’
Aaaargh. I haven’t made my Halloween costume yet. With Daisy being so upset last night, I forgot to ask Mum if she had an old sheet that I could cut into strips for my mummy costume. I hope there’ll be enough time to do this before Vivaldi and I go out. Then I remember it’s Vivaldi and me and Daisy going out. GULP. Suddenly I’ve got my fingers and toes tightly crossed that Daisy doesn’t become even more weird and witchy because it’s Halloween. I’m still staring at the wall, imagining Daisy in a variety of embarrassingly weird disguises, when the bell rings for morning break and we herd outside.
‘What’re you going guising as?’ Shane demands, his single eyebrow twitching like a caterpillar in its death throes.
‘We’re having a Halloween ball at our house,’ Annabel brays. ‘Hundreds of people. Daddy says we can stay up as late as we like and I’m going to dress up as Mary Queen of Scots.’
Shane stares at Annabel in disbelief.
‘Shut up, Annabel,’ Jamie, Annabel’s big brother, mutters, but it’s too late.
‘What’s Mary Queen of Scots got to do with Halloween?’ Shane demands.
Annabel heaves a theatrical sigh. ‘Don’t you know anything? Mary Queen of Scots had her head chopped orf.’
‘How’re you gonny manage that?’ Shane asks,* but Vivaldi interrupts.
‘What are you going as, Shane?’
Shane brightens. ‘Me ’n’ Craig’re going as vampires. We’ve got fangs, fake blood and we’ll make cloaks out of black bin-bags.’
Annabel yawns pointedly. Jamie kicks her leg and turns to me.
‘Lily? No – don’t tell me, let me guess. You’d be great as Morticia Addams or, erm, Marilyn Manson.’
‘He’s a bloke,’ Shane mutters scornfully; then, seeing an opportunity for revenge, ‘Don’t you know anything? Lily’s no gonny dress like him – are you, eh?’
Oh, boy. Here we go. But before I can say a word, Yoshito says, ‘Oh, Lily. You should go as a sea-witch.
Or a mer-princes. Or a . . .’ Shane snorts, but Yoshito doesn’t let him stop her. ‘Will you come and visit my house, Lily? When you go out disguising?’
‘Me too,’ says Vivaldi. ‘Can I come and visit you with Lily?’
‘Yes,’ says Yoshito. ‘You are welcome. I am not going out, but I will be dressing up for visitors, so please come and visit Papa and me.’
Poor Yoshito. I’d hate to be stuck inside for Halloween, but she seems quite happy to stay at home with her dad.
‘Hey, Annabelly,’ Craig says, stepping out from behind a tree. ‘Fancy inviting a couple of pals to your party?’
Annabel looks as if she’s just stood in something a dog threw up, but Craig carries on, ‘Shane and me, eh? What a blast that would be. Ah’m sure your daddy wouldn’t mind. Whaddya think, Jamie?’
Jamie chokes, coughs and seems to be unable to get a word out.
Craig smiles, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘Course, if there’s a problem,’ he says, leaning down to put his face next to Annabel’s,* ‘Shane and me’ll just havety gatecrash.’
Annabel rears back as if she’s been bitten. She takes a deep breath, fixes Craig with a glare and says firmly, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Daddy’s hired a security firm to deal with that sort of thing.’
At this, Jamie’s eyes roll so far backwards they look as if they’re about to slide down the back of his throat, and Craig is about to explode, but Annabel carries on, oblivious to the fact that all her classmates are beaming drop-dead-Annabel rays at her: ‘Daddy takes a very dim view of any riff-raff trespassing on our land.’
Oh, for heaven’s sake, I think. Somebody make her stop before we all rise up and turn her into a nasty stain in the middle of the playground.
‘Ewwwwww,’ Shane squeals. ‘Daddy can just go and take a flying—’
But whatever Shane was about to suggest is drowned out by a banshee howl:
‘WAYYYYYYWOooOOoooO, MY WAAAAAYYYYWOoOooOoo.’
I spin round, expecting to see Daisy standing behind me, but she isn’t there. Again the howl blares across the playground, but this time one of the panes of glass in the nursery window explodes outwards.
By which time I am halfway across the playground, heading for the nursery in an attempt to stop Daisy howling so much that she flattens the school. Annabel and Jamie’s daddy has to hire a team of security guards t
o guard his home, but we’ve got something far, far scarier. Woo-hoo, that Witch Baby Demolition Tot. Don’t mess with her.
* He glares at Annabel as if he’d be only too happy to volunteer to pick up an axe and be her executioner.
* Which can’t be a lot of fun because for such a posh person, Annabel smells** as if she can’t afford a toothbrush.
** Annabel still has the wisps of a particularly horrid spell clinging to her. She doesn’t know this is a magical pong, and brushes and flosses day and night to rid herself of it.
Six:
Big, hairy, venom-dribbling things
It turns out that Miss McPhee, Daisy’s play-leader, decided to read her littlies a story at morning break rather than send them outside to play in the cold. How was she to know that Dogger (the story of a little boy who loses his beloved toy dog) was exactly the wrong book to read to poor Daisy?
As Miss McPhee sweeps up all the broken glass, I try to comfort my sobbing goblin of a little sister. The other playgroup tots are happily hurling sand, water, paint and playdough all about, while Mr Fox, the janitor, hammers a sheet of hardboard over the broken window. When Daisy’s howls have dropped to shrieks, then finally ebbed away to hiccuppy sobs, Miss McPhee tries to woo her off my lap.
‘But the book has such a happy ending,’ she says. ‘Look, Daisy. See, on the last page, there’s Dogger tucked up in bed with Dave—’
‘WAY-hic-yyy-hic-Wooooo-hic.’
